Chapter Text
There comes a time during every showstopper challenge when the judges have nothing to do. Their walkabout to quiz the bakers on their creations is over, and so with twenty minutes left on the clock Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are relegated to the side of the tent. No one pays them any attention: the bakers are rushing to finish and the cameras are straining to catch every drop of sweat on their brows.
Janine and Mary, the presenters, try to offer support but are mostly joking around and getting in the way of the five stressed people whose wedding cakes are at critical stages. Mary is giving Greg encouragement as his tower of cake wobbles and Janine, briefly at a loose end, wanders over to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson to retrieve her water bottle and take a quick break.
"Soo..." she sits herself on the table between them and covers her mic with her hand, "which one of them is the most shaggable?"
Mrs. Hudson swats her playfully.
"You'll get us into trouble talking like that in here. Oooh but I do like John. Reminds me of my husband.”
Sherlock and Janine look at her incredulously. Mrs. Hudson's husband is an actor, renowned for his hardman roles. Someone less like John is impossible to imagine.
“Mary fancies John too,” Janine says, having given up on making sense of Mrs. Hudson’s answer. “Sherlock? And yes, you do have to play.”
Her look of studied indifference to his answer couldn’t be more obvious. After three series working together she (and, it seems, most of the viewing public) is still gagging to pin down his sexuality.
His temporary saviour comes in the form of Jim Moriarty, who is suddenly in front of them and wearing his ever-present baseball cap. The smile he directs at Janine is irritated.
“Have you forgotten which side of the camera you should be standing on Janine?”
"I was just getting a drink.” She sticks out her tongue. “And gossiping. Sherlock was about to tell us which contestant he wants to smother in chocolate ganache."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, quick to end the conversation. "I’ll join the queue for John Watson’s attentions, shall I? Far be it from me to go against popular opinion."
“Not Sally?” Janine asks, pretending to be surprised. “But you two get on so well! You could tell that her bread has the consistency of Playdough again and this time it would end with sweaty hate-sex and flour in strange places.”
Sherlock’s not quite sure what’s so funny about his reaction but it almost causes Mrs. Hudson to slide off her chair laughing.
A shriek comes from the other side of the tent and Jim jerks his head to the clouds of icing sugar rising from one of the benches.
"Soo Lin's just dropped her bowl," he says. "Go and pet her hair or something."
Janine hops down to go to the aid of Soo Lin but she turns to leave them with a final thought.
"Personally I want a big bed with room for Greg to knead my baps and for Sally to lick my-"
Three groans drown her out and then she’s lost one more in the chaos of baking and filming.
--
The problem Sherlock has in the weeks between filming is that he keeps thinking about John.
He spends the days he isn't caught up in the whirlwind of the Bake Off production in his kitchen at 221b, his artisanal bakery on Baker Street. 221b made the cake for the Royal Wedding and provided the White House staff with donuts on the President’s last visit. The shop looks after itself (well, his brother insists Anthea looks after the shop) so he is left to spend hours alone experimenting.
Which, unfortunately, gives him plenty of time to think about John.
What would John say about this recipe?
Does John like blueberries? (He hasn't used any in the challenge yet.)
What flavours would John use in this bread?
It's annoying. The man is an excellent baker but by no means the most consistent (Greg) or the most technically skilled (Molly). Yet his opinion is the one Sherlock craves.
It started with the first technical challenge of the series. It was Sherlock's recipe (Cornish Pasties) and John's version was... it wasn't made the way Sherlock wanted it made, and it wasn't faultless, but it was... interesting. John somehow made a boring recipe interesting.
It annoys him that he can't quite put his finger on why.
He remembers praising the pasty, scanning his eyes over the faces of the contestants to work out which one of them made it. When John awkwardly raised his hand when the winner was announced, Sherlock had to stop himself just... staring at the man.
Mrs. Hudson has even commented on his behaviour.
“Sherlock dear… do try to remember that you are the judge,” she said in her last phone call. “Because when you get to John’s bench and he starts explaining his method, you look a little bit like you want to get out a notebook and write down his advice.”
He’d brushed off her comments but he knows he’s on dangerous territory. It’s hard to be a judge when he’s constantly wondering what John would think of his bakes. John’s never tried anything made by Sherlock and Sherlock finds himself imagining what would happen if John was here in 221b. He’d let John try anything, any cake or pastry that caught his eye. John’s a sensual baker, constantly tasting and testing, and it’s all about the feel of the bakes in his mouth. The idea of John being here, watching his mouth working, and the fantasy of him being delighted with everything is enough to distract Sherlock completely.
It’s ridiculous. It’s not like he’s even spoken to John outside the contest. It’s against the rules and while they do spend every weekend staying in the same hotel, the judges and the contestants keep apart.
Of course, that’s the theory. Sometimes life isn’t that simple: which is a lesson he learns when he arrives at his hotel room door the next week. He takes out his key and is just about to go inside when the door opposite opens and John’s head pokes out.
“Hi- oh!”
He stops short upon seeing Sherlock. For Sherlock’s part he stands there blinking foolishly at the man.
“Sorry, I was hoping you were Molly,” John says.
John takes Sherlock’s lack of reaction for an accusation.
“No! Nothing like that. She just - she promised to lend me an obscure book she found on sugar work, which is, uh, not my strongest area. As you know. I’d have thought they’d have put you in a better sort of room from us mere contestants.”
Sherlock finds his voice again. “No. Apparently the BBC are stingy about these things. If I’d have known that when Mrs. Hudson talked me into this series three years ago I’d have saved myself a great deal of time in appalling hotel rooms.”
John smiles, but further comment is cut off by Janine who strides towards them wheeling an enormous suitcase.
“Hello boys,” she calls. “Sherlock, you gorgeous creature, you aren’t meant to be fraternising with the enemy.”
She kisses him on the cheek, which she knows he loathes, and goes to her own door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! But if you do, keep it quiet. I need my beauty sleep.”
--
The next day goes exactly as every Saturday goes in the competition. Filming begins, there’s a great deal of hanging around, and then finally the signature challenge starts. This week it’s tarts and Sherlock makes sure to be extra severe about John’s Jam Tarts because it stops gossips like Mrs. Hudson and reminds him that John is nothing more to him than a contestant.
Unfortunately when they are baked they are simple but exquisitely made.
“Extraordinary,” he blurts, before his brain can catch up. John looks astonished at the praise and they leave him grinning to himself before moving on to Greg’s solid but boring effort. Feeling out of sorts he goes to town over Sally’s raw base and Molly’s runny jam is saved a mauling only by virtue of her perfect pastry.
There is a good deal of standing around again while the tent is set up for the technical bake and then Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are sent away while the four remaining bakers tackle Mrs. Hudson’s Belgian Tart with only vague guidelines to follow.
They sit in the judging tent, film their short piece about the perfect Belgian Tart, and then they are left alone. He normally works on his laptop and Mrs. Hudson reads some awful romance book but today she looks out of sorts.
“Sherlock we need to… can we talk?”
For a brief second Sherlock thinks it’s going to be about John and his lack of professionalism. He just thinks John is talented and interesting, it’s not like he’s got a crush or anything…
“Sherlock, Frank’s been offered a job.”
This is hardly exciting news. Frank Hudson is one of the busiest actors in the UK.
“He’s very excited. It’s that book series everyone been talking about… he’s playing a wizard or something… five films guaranteed and you know how desperate he’s been to branch out and get some real recognition.”
“Congratulations,” Sherlock says blankly.
“Sherlock… the job’s in New Zealand and, well, this show was only meant to be a bit of fun for me. I’ve told them that this is going to be my last series.”
Sherlock’s first thought is ‘how did I miss this?’ Mrs. Hudson has always been an open book to him, only made interesting by the bizarre life story she carries around with her. She’s the reason he’s sitting here. She – a baking guru and dessert trend-setter back in the sixties – had been invited to be a judge and she’d begged him to join her on this mad venture. He’d agreed to please her (and to increase his work’s exposure while simultaneously pissing off Mycroft.)
Sherlock had loathed everything and everyone for the first half of series one. Mrs. Hudson’s excitement at actually being on television had been the only thing preventing him stalking away from the tent and never looking back.
And now… now the tent was the closest he came to having friends. For twelve weekends a year he was surrounded by people who either liked him, found him amusing, or at the very least acknowledged his expertise in the science of baking. Without Mrs. Hudson he’d still have a website no one visited and a bakery only dull people visited.
“I understand this show was never really what you wanted to do,” Mrs. Hudson continues, twisting her fingers on her lap. “And I appreciate that you’ve been a good sport for my sake, but now you can go back to 221b and things can be the way they were before.”
She stands and hugs him. He returns it weakly.
“What will happen to the show?” he asks.
Mrs. Hudson shrugs. “Oh I imagine they’ll try and keep it going. There’ll be judges to replace us.”
They are interrupted by one of the runners, calling them back for judging.
Sherlock’s mind isn’t on the task, which is a lengthier process that most people would expect. It’s supposedly a blind judging but normally he knows within seconds which baker has made what. Today he doesn’t even look at their faces.
The third tart is particularly awful: virtually raw and with leaking filling. His mood sinks even further as the creator of the disaster is revealed to be John.
“I expected more from you!” he snaps. “This is an unacceptable mess and you’re better than this.”
He looks at John’s face for the first time all day. His expression is a mixture of surprise at Sherlock’s outburst, anger at himself, and embarrassment.
The second the filming is finished Sherlock turns and leaves the tent to get back to his hotel.
--
At three in the morning Sherlock is still awake, pacing his hotel room and silently raging. He cares nothing for the fame and he loathes the publicity cycle, but he likes being a judge. He likes the creative mess of ideas and experiments – some disasters and some successful - that he sees every week.
Of course he could come back next year without Mrs. Hudson, but that would be tantamount to admitting his love for the show. Besides, he’s met other ‘celebrity’ bakers and none of them would work with him.
Now it’s as good as over. There is one more day of filming tomorrow and then it’s the final weekend next week…
John might not even make it. His signature challenge had been passable and his technical challenge awful. He’s going to have to work hard tomorrow to survive and wouldn’t that just be fitting? For the only truly interesting baker Sherlock’s ever met to be booted off before the last show he ever films.
If only he could talk to John. Find out why he’s so interesting, why Sherlock can’t stop thinking about him…
The thought stops him in his tracks.
If it’s the last series, then what to do rules about fraternisation really mean? If he wants to talk to John he can and will.
He goes throws open the hotel room door and –
Stops in his tracks as he comes face to face with Mary, frozen in place on the threshold of John’s room.
“Sherlock!” she says, her voice high pitched. “What are you doing?”
It’s a question he could very well throw back at her. He does.
“I was… getting some more nicotine patches. What are you doing?”
“We were just talking,” Mary says quickly. “There aren’t any rules against contestants and presenters…”
“Fraternising?”
“Getting to know each other better.”
He forces a smile. “Of course not. Well, goodnight.”
He turns back into his room.
“What about the nicotine patches?” she asks.
Sherlock shakes his head. “Suddenly the craving is gone.”
--
The beehive is presenting Sherlock with a problem.
He is sitting on the counter at 221b, fingers steepled, considering the solution. The beehive is sitting on the kitchen table, silently mocking him.
It’s the centrepiece for his window display. Or it least it will be if he can stop it collapsing the moment even the weakest sunlight shines upon it. His goal is for it to be a beehive made of honeycomb and sugar that’s so realistic he’ll have the pest control service turning up at his door in a panic. When the display is over it will be smashed open and honey will ooze out for wide-eyed tots to collect in little jars that will be provided for the stunt, and in turn their little expressions will be all over the video that will be posted on his website, shortly to go viral.
But that’s only if he can keep the bake together.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Anthea, which is worrying because she only comes into the backroom to bother him if armed robbers, royalty, or his brother are on the premises.
Here’s hoping for armed robbers.
“Mr. Holmes? You have a visitor. From your little show.” Her voice drips with the disdain for Bake Off that Mycroft pays her to exhibit around Sherlock.
He relaxes and returns to the beehive problem. “Mrs. Hudson? Send her in.”
“Er, sorry… not Mrs. Hudson.”
Sherlock’s head snaps towards the door. It’s John.
John is briefly distracted by looking around the secretive 221b kitchen. It looks more like a laboratory than a bakery and he stares in fascination and Sherlock’s more unusual equipment. It gives Sherlock a chance to look John over: he’s dressed a little more formally than Sherlock is used to, in trousers rather than the well-fitting jeans he normally wears. He’s wearing a work lanyard and the moment he notices Sherlock’s scrutiny he looks uncomfortable under it.
“You’re not allowed to be here,” Sherlock says.
Only a lifetime of self-control stops him smashing his forehead onto the sticky table in embarrassment at that opening line.
“Er, sorry, that woman let me in-”
“No. Here. I’m not meant to talk to you outside the tent. Not that I care much for rules.”
John takes a step further into the room and crosses his arms in a way that suggests he’s about to get down to some unpleasant business.
“Yes. It was about that… Mary said you saw her coming out of my room last week.”
Sherlock jumps down off the counter and begins moving pans around rather erratically.
“It clearly didn’t hurt your performance. Your showstopper really was a marvel and you were very fortunate that Sally went a step too far with the rosewater. What is it with people trying to make food taste like soap? Anderson did it in the first show, with those lavender crackers, and now her-“
“I just want to clear up any misunderstanding,” John interrupts. “We’d just got talking in the bar and then when the bar closed we went to my room to carry on talking. Nothing untoward. And there’s no rule-“
“Why do you imagine I care?”
“I don’t, I just… didn’t want you to think I was that sort of person. I try to take any romantic opportunity that comes my way, just in case, and so when I was talking to Mary I wanted to see where it went. But, uh, as it is I don’t think either of our hearts were really in it.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you any of this.”
“So you’re not interested in Mary?”
It’s then, in the very moment those words have left Sherlock’s mouth that he realise two things: how much he needs to know the answer, and why he needs to know it.
After years of being completely uninterested in every man he’s met, he’s stumbled across John Watson and now he is interested. That’s why he’s been thinking about John and wanting to talk to John, and why he needs to know that Mary isn’t in the picture.
John doesn’t seem to notice that Sherlock’s question betrays his feelings, but John doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he thinks Sherlock’s interested in Mary.
“No, I’m not. Anyway, that’s not the only reason I came. I work thirty minutes away and I’ve never even been here… I thought it was something that needed to be put right.”
Sherlock stops himself from saying ‘I’ve been hoping you’d visit’ and instead shrugs awkwardly at the mess on the table.
“Beehives are a problem at the moment.”
“I’ve noticed,” John smiles. “Is this where I get to judge you? You’ve had a real seepage problem here… it’s a total disaster… this might cost you your place in the competition.”
Sherlock’s mouth quirks. “It’s not unreasonable criticism. I’ve made chocolate eggs to store the honey, but the moment they get too warm-“
“-the honey leaks all over the floor.”
Sherlock shrugs. “Give it half an hour and you’ll see that it’s saturated the honeycomb too: the whole thing is going to collapse.”
“It’s a shame,” John says softly. “Because it’s an astonishing design. Why are you storing the honey in chocolate eggs, again?”
“Because everything else melted even faster or soaked up the honey… if I could find some way to protect the chocolate...”
Sherlock is deep in thought, but somehow John’s voice reaches him anyway.
“-like a giant Smartie shell.”
That’s it!
A candy shell! It’s perfect. It will be an extra layer of protection, and if he uses two shells, one internally and one externally, the honey should be safe from all but extreme heat.
“I knew it!” Sherlock crosses the room towards John and grips his shoulders. “I knew if I could just talk it through with you the whole problem would be solved!”
He’s grinning down at John, half embracing him, and John is looking back, eyes glittering in a way that makes Sherlock wish that this was one of those romantic opportunities John habitually takes.
But it isn’t. After a moment they clear their throats and step apart. John mentions that his lunch hour is nearly over and that he’ll be late. Sherlock is trying to think of some way to ensure John will come back as soon as possible. I have a flat upstairs. Come and have tea. Have dinner. Just exist in the same room as me for a little longer…
“You’re welcome back anytime,” he says finally.
John smiles. “Well, until then, I’ll see you back in the tent.”